The parade would begin at the high school and move through town – past the barbershop, the doctor’s office, a couple of banks, and the bars – then pause on the bridge over the Brokenstraw Creek.  A prayer was said, a wreath was dropped over the bridge into the water, and three shots were fired before the parade would resume, making its way up to the cemetery where there would be a speech, another prayer, and three more shots.  This was how my little hometown observed Memorial Day.  It was a solemn affair when even the children knew when to keep quiet.  The old men, wearing their caps identifying them as veterans, saluted.  American flags waved from front porches. 

What I did not know then was that Memorial Day was practice for what I would experience in middle age.  Allow me to explain.  At fifty-one, I find myself looking back over my life amazed at how quickly it has gone by.  Within a few short years, my wife and I will be empty-nestors, and if I am being honest, the prospect does not sit well with me in the least.  It makes me sad.  I miss the days of pigtails and dress-up, recitals and trips to the park to feed the ducks.  It is Memorial Day for me every day.  My three little girls are now three young ladies, and the feelings of pride and melancholy that swirl around in my heart are oftentimes too burdensome.  I am at a loss for what to do, how to think.  I have only those feelings and long walks in the park with my dog Arrow where I try to process it all.  Where I pray.  Where I search for direction and purpose. 

What does a man do after all the milestones have been achieved?  College.  Career.  Marriage.  Kids.  All checked.  What does a man do in an empty, quiet house? 

Memorial Day is a day of reflection, a day meant to think about U.S. military personnel who died while in the service.  It is a day to look back, but as I consider that event and the men, many of them old, who lined the streets, watching the parade go by, I wonder what God calls us to do when life seems so bleak. 

We are made in our Creator’s image, which means that we were made to create.  The act of creating is of God.  The act of destroying is of the enemy.  What are we meant to do, then, but to create even after war and loss, even after the obvious milestones have been achieved?  The men I knew as a kid lost buddies in their youth, watched them die on foreign battlefields.  But these same men returned home and built families, built lives, created good things for all.  Perhaps you, too, dear listeners, are in a dark place, wondering what’s next and anxious about momentums that cannot – indeed, should not – be slowed or stopped altogether.  Might I suggest that you remember what you were designed to do and Who you were designed by.  Many apexes may have been reached, but this does not negate who you are, who I am, Who the Creator God, the only true apex, was and is and ever shall be. 

Here is a poem I wrote.  I hope it lands well. 

Memorial Day in Youngsville 

Bo Dean, the dog 

that jumped like a deer, 

mangled a rabbit, left it in the woods – 

a cacophony of blood, fur, and bones – where 

we found it after 

we returned from the parade: 

Memorial Day, old soldiers with guns, 

saluting the war dead with three loud bangs – 

Pow!  Pow!  Pow! 

We buried the rabbit, 

threw rocks over the pretty 

mound of dirt; 

we were noble, precise, 

too young to really understand